


The Sincerest Form of Flattery

by quodthey



Category: DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, No editing we die like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 10:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18281246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodthey/pseuds/quodthey
Summary: Five times the Justice League deal with impersonators.





	The Sincerest Form of Flattery

**1\. Batman**

He hears Selina before he sees her, which is unusual in the night. She laughs carelessly, says, “Who do you think I am? You’re not him.” 

He can smell the smoke from her cigarette, drifting up into the rest of the pollution of Gotham, can picture her easily: leaning against the wall, movements as languid and lazy as the cats she feeds. He neither knows nor really cares who she’s talking to, until a man speaks up. 

“Yes, I am,” he says. He is attempting a low, husky voice, almost a growl. “I am the Batman.” 

Well. That — is a new one. 

“Oh darling,” she says, a smirk in her voice. “I know Batman _very_ well.” 

“As do I,” he says, dropping down onto the fire escape. 

The other Batman jerks back at the rush of a great black cape in the night, the glare of white lenses. His own costume is lacking in both. 

A tall man too slender to ever pass among those acquainted with him, a costume obviously handmade and stitched badly together. New, desperate. His eyes are unprotected and dark, the face visible beneath the hastily made cowl weathered and prematurely aged. 

“What are you doing,” he says. It is never a question. 

“I —” the other man stammers. “She’s. She’s a criminal. Sir.”

Batman and Batman both turn to look at Selina. She has acquired a cat, a length of white fur working its way around her legs. 

“Yes,” he says. “She is.” 

To Selina, he says, “Are you committing a crime.” 

“I don’t own this cat,” she says. He stares at her and she huffs. “No.”

“Are you planning to.” 

She puts her cigarette out on an ashtray shaped like a dog. He recognises it; Dick gave it to her when he was Robin. “Why would I tell you that?” 

“Are you planning a crime.” There is no inflection. He hasn’t moved. The other Batman is far more intimidated than she is.

“I’m almost certain you’ll know before I do,” she says idly.

He looks back at the other Batman. “What are you doing here,” he repeats. Selina notices the softening of the tone, but he doesn’t. 

The man visibly steels himself, rallies courage from within to speak to a myth he’d likely never even laid eyes on before tonight. “You can’t be everywhere,” he says. 

Batman says nothing, because this man doesn’t need to know how long he spends looking at crime statistics and thinking about how far away he was from that robbery, that murder, that assault. 

“Neither can you,” he says. “But I don’t work alone.”

He has Oracle in his ear, and could run across three or four of his own people in one night. There is nobody behind the other Batman. 

“Go home,” he says. “Find another way.” 

As he turns to leave, he pauses. “I hear Wayne is always looking people for outreach programs.” 

 

**2\. Wonder Woman**

She loves her armor — the level of craftsmanship on show in every piece of it, the love of Themyscira worked into the leather and metal, the history of her people in the curves of her crown and bracelets. She is proud of it every moment she wears it. 

Other people love it too. There are new versions on display every chance people get to dress up, to be people who they are not. But where she sees the strength and power, others see the cut of the breastplate, the curve of her thighs beneath the skirt. Mostly she practices patience and tolerance, understands that the style is unusual to them, and therefore something of a novelty. 

But this is not like the others. 

The woman is tall, and built powerfully. She inhabits her skin like she knows what every inch of her body can do, knows how to take pride in the curves of muscle and broad shoulders. 

“We know you want to do as much as possible,” she says, “but we didn’t want to keep bothering you.” 

Her name is Amanda and she teaches at a dojo in the city, but the children in this unit know her as Wonder Woman when she visits them every Wednesday. Her hair is long and dark and pinned up behind a golden tiara. Her costume is thinner than Diana’s, not as sturdy as real armor, but a good replica. Her greaves have been battered but well cleaned, and give her a height that almost matches Diana’s own. 

“I’m not going to go out and pick fights with the biggest guy I can find or anything,” Amanda says, “but —”

“How does it make you feel?” Diana asks. She wants to apologise for interrupting, but this feels like one of those polite talks where it becomes one apology after another, for things people hadn’t done wrong. 

Amanda blinks. “Sorry?” 

“The costume,” Diana says, smiling. “How does it make you feel?” 

Amanda pauses for a moment to think. “Strong,” she says eventually. 

“My costume makes me feel strong, too,” Diana agrees. “The children here need someone who is strong.” 

They look at each other, and Diana can see echoes of each of her sisters in Amanda’s eyes. “You do not fight for the sake of violence,” she says. 

“Used to. But there’s — there are a lot of people,” she says, slowly and with certainty, “who just need someone to be there.” She looks away, as if it could ever be shameful to find a way without making war. 

“Well,” Diana says. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me, Wonder Woman?” 

 

**3\. Superman**

Clark remembers his first suit, sewn for him by his mother when she realised that he couldn’t just sit by and let things happen. It’s long since been destroyed, but it looked a lot like what this man has made for himself, thin fabric and all. The thing is that Clark could survive the thin fabric. 

“Evening,” he says, smiling. “Everything alright here?” 

The muggers look between the two of them, both their suits blue and emblazoned with his big S, but one of them stands with feet firmly on the ground, fists raised. He’s neither as tall nor as wide as Clark, hair pushed back from a young and determined face. Clark floats several feet above the ground, arms relaxed, still smiling. 

“We’re fine,” the other Superman says, not looking up at him. He bounces a little on the balls of his feet. 

“Yeah,” one of the men says, but he glances up at Superman, uncertainty on his face. His hand wavers. “We’re good.”

Superman raises an eyebrow. “Someone pulls a knife on me, I wouldn’t really think of it as a fine situation,” he says. “Why don’t I take that off your hands?” 

With a blur and a gust of wind in the still night, the men are disarmed and dazed. “I think it’s time you men went home, don’t you?” he suggests. 

The men back away quickly, nodding. “Sure thing, yeah,” one stammers. “We’ll just be heading off now, Mr Superman Sir, thanks for your time, have a good night —” he trips over his own feet while walking backwards, then turns and runs. 

The two Supermen watch them leave, then the man on the ground looks up. “I had it handled,” he says. 

“Sure,” Superman says. He pauses, glances to the side, smoke filling his nostrils and stinging at his eyes. “Hold that thought for a second,” he says. 

He’s back about thirty seconds later. “There was a fire,” he says apologetically. “Sometimes I have to dash.” 

The boy, and he is just a boy, stares; awe is something Clark deals with on an unfortunately regular basis at this point. He can see it from a mile away. 

“You’re Superman,” the Superboy says. 

“I am,” he says. “Who are you?” 

“I,” he starts. “I’m Mike.”

Clark lets himself fall down to the ground. “It’s nice to meet you, Mike,” he says. “But isn’t it getting a little late?” 

The boy — Mike — shuffles. “Yeah,” he says. “But this is when heroes work, isn’t it?” 

“How old are you, Mike?” Clark asks, gently. 

“Nineteen,” is the quick response. Clark looks at him, and he jerks his head away. Mike sighs. “Sixteen.” 

“You’re still in school,” he says. 

“Yeah, but,” he exhales harshly. “I want to do something. Something useful. Good.” 

Clark nods. “I understand that,” he says. “Do you have bullies in your school?” 

“What?” Mike asks, blinking. 

“Bullies,” Clark repeats. “They’re everywhere, aren’t they?” 

“I… guess so,” Mike says, not comprehending. 

Clark leans in. “Mike,” he says softly. “I can almost guarantee you right now that there are a lot of people in your school who could do with someone standing up for them. Someone to be their hero.” 

And after thinking for a moment, the boy looks at him, and smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “They could.” 

 

**4\. The Flash**

There’s a kid running up and down the street, again and again. She reaches a wall and turns, runs down the street. Reaches a lampost, circles it, and goes back. Barry’s getting tired just watching her go. 

He looks at the kid, then down at his lunch. He gets so thirsty when he runs a lot. 

“Hey,” he calls to her just as she’s passing. He holds up an unopened bottle. “You want some water?” 

She slows down as she nearly passes him again. “My mom says I’m not meant to talk to strangers,” she says, staying a careful distance away from him. 

“No talking required,” he says happily. “I run a lot, too, so I know you can get thirsty.” He holds up the bottle and waits until she’s ready to catch it before tossing it gently in her direction. “You don’t want to get sick or pass out.” Not that either of those things has ever happened to him.

She breaks the seal, and gulps down half the bottle in one go. “Thanks,” she says, smiling a little. 

“So,” he starts. “Why all the running?” 

She grins at him, stands up straighter. Prouder. “I’m going to be the Flash,” she says. 

Barry blinks. “The Flash?” he repeats. She scowls at him, and he gets the feeling she’s had this conversation a lot. 

“The Flash is really cool,” she insists. 

“Alright,” he says. _Cool_. He’s really cool. 

“So I’m going to get really good at running,” she tells him. “And then when he’s old and slow, I’m going to take over.” 

“Long term planning,” he says approvingly. “Nice.” 

He’s not sure how he feels about her counting on him getting old and slow and probably dying when she’s still young enough to have a go at being _The Flash_ but he likes the enthusiasm. 

Superman has a fan club. Batman has conspiracy forum weirdos. But Barry has this little girl in front of him who wants to _be_ him, and he doesn’t want her to be disappointed.

“But,” he says. “Doesn’t the Flash have, you know, superpowers?” 

The girl glares at the pavement. “Yeah,” she says. “I don’t know how to get around that one yet.” 

Barry shrugs. “Honestly, science is probably going to crack it, some day.” 

She squints at him. “You think?” 

“Sure,” he says. “It’s probably some sort of ‘just add chemicals’ reaction. Lots of superheroes out there because of that.” 

“Huh,” she says. “Science.” 

“Science,” he agrees. 

 

**5\. Green Lantern**

Bruce Wayne stares. The Green Lantern stares back. 

Or, he would, if he were the Green Lantern. 

This, however, was Hal Jordan, Entertainer Extraordinaire, so instead he beams at Bruce Wayne, Billionaire, like this was an entirely expected encounter and not something that’s going to show up in his nightmares. 

“Where did you get the mask,” Bruce asks. 

“Your closet,” Hal snaps. “God, can’t I have one thing without you getting involved?” 

“You haven’t been to the meetings,” Bruce says. 

“Been busy.” 

“Hm.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “You going to call the others to come get a good look?” 

“Why would I do that.” 

“Why would you — are you _being serious_ right now, why would you do that, why _haven’t_ you done that?” 

“As long as you’re not damaging the League with this,” Bruce says. “I don’t see why it matters.” 

“ _Damaging the_ — look, I have to know, I really need to ask,” Hal says, pushing his plastic mask up. The string gets caught in his hair. “Do you practice being this much of an asshole? Like, do you do routines in the mirror when you’re meant to be brushing your teeth? Is that your secret?” 

“No,” Bruce says. “I always brush my teeth.”

Hal makes a strangled noise, and jerks his outstretched hands down to his sides before raising a finger and pointing sharply at his colleague. “You are the _worst_ , do you know that? The actual worst.” 

“Hnn.” And then: “What are you doing next week.” 

Hal’s shoulders sag. “Nothing yet,” he says, resigned, because he knows that whatever this is, he’s not going to enjoy it. “Why?” 

Bruce’s face is entirely blank. “It’s Dick’s birthday.” 

Hal is psychic now, apparently. Maybe it’s all the space exposure. Maybe he’s picked something up. He looks at him. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Dick likes you,” he says, and Hal gets the impression that the only reason he doesn’t add _because I went wrong somewhere in raising him_ is because Bruce thought it instead. Psychic. 

“You _are_. Do your kids know you get off on torturing people?”

“They thought that every time I made them clean their bedrooms. Do you want a job or not.”

Hal grits his teeth. On one hand: Batman. On the other hand: cash. Batman’s cash. The costume isn’t like his ring projection. The fabric is getting worn and shiny, and there’s a hole developing under the arm. He closes his eyes. 

“Where and when?” he asks tonelessly. 

“Thursday. I’ll have a car pick you up.”

**Author's Note:**

> "marlowe, was this whole fic just an excuse for that last part?" 
> 
> i will never tell.


End file.
